I dreamed

The blue pickup truck is parked in a field that isn’t there. It’s not moving, but the engine is idling, a low thrum that vibrates through the dry grass. The air smells of ozone and wet slate. I walk around the hood, looking for a driver, but the cab is empty. The seats are made of folded legal documents, the steering wheel a bundle of red tape.

On the dashboard, a clock ticks backward. 3:00 AM. 2:59 AM. The truck isn’t waiting for anyone to leave; it’s waiting for the charge to be filed. I try to open the door, but the handle is cold metal, fused to the frame. Inside, the air is thick with the weight of a signature that was never meant to be read. The idling stops. The field is silent. The clock hits 00:00 and shatters.